in Lord Mountclere's position
to whom she was plighted--a great deal of formal considerateness making
itself visible on her part, and of extreme tenderness on his. While thus
occupied, he turned to the piano, and casually glanced at a piece of
music lying open upon it. Some words of writing at the top expressed
that it was the composer's original copy, presented by him, Christopher
Julian, to the author of the song. Seeing that he noticed the sheet
somewhat lengthily, Ethelberta remarked that it had been an offering made
to her a long time ago--a melody written to one of her own poems.

'In the writing of the composer,' observed Lord Mountclere, with
interest. 'An offering from the musician himself--very gratifying and
touching. Mr. Christopher Julian is the name I see upon it, I believe? I
knew his father, Dr. Julian, a Sandbourne man, if I recollect.'

'Yes,' said Ethelberta placidly. But it was really with an effort. The
song was the identical one which Christopher sent up to her from
Sandbourne when the fire of her hope burnt high for less material ends;
and the discovery of the sheet among her music that day had started
eddies of emotion for some time checked.

'I am sorry you have been grieved,' said Lord Mountclere, with gloomy
restlessness.

'Grieved?' said Ethelberta.

'Did I not see a tear there? or did my eyes deceive me?'

'You might have seen one.'

'Ah! a tear, and a song. I think--'

'You naturally think that a woman who cries over a man's gift must be in
love with the giver?' Ethelberta looked him serenely in the face.

Lord Mountclere's jealous suspicions were considerably shaken.

'Not at all,' he said hastily, as if ashamed. 'One who cries over a song
is much affected by its sentiment.'

'Do you expect authors to cry over their own words?' she inquired,
merging defence in attack. 'I am afraid they don't often do that.'

'You would make me uneasy.'

'On the contrary, I would reassure you. Are you not still doubting?' she
asked, with a pleasant smile.

'I cannot doubt you!'

'Swear, like a faithful knight.'

'I swear, my fairy, my flower!'

After this the old man appeared to be pondering; indeed, his thoughts
could hardly be said to be present when he uttered the words. For though
the tabernacle was getting shaky by reason of years and merry living, so
that what was going on inside might often be guessed without by the
movement of the hangings, as in a puppet-show with